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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29901900">fate is cruel (but not unkind)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>lavender crowned anon's dream smp collection [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Afterlife, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Introspection, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), aka lavender author decides to use meta to her advantage, kind of</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:42:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,487</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29901900</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>TommyInnit is dead. </p><p>But just after life, and just before death, he finds himself having a conversation with someone that is surprisingly familiar.</p><p>Himself.</p><p>(Sort of.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>lavender crowned anon's dream smp collection [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984183</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>fate is cruel (but not unkind)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tommy died painfully, so maybe it was to be expected that his transition into the afterlife wasn't going to be a particularly pleasant experience.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn't a gentle ebb and fade into awareness - it was a sharp, sudden coming to, the abruptness of it shocking him into stumbling blindly to his feet, preparing to defend himself against an enemy that was on a different plane of existence. He could feel every single one of his wounds and bruises screaming in protest until suddenly he couldn't, the pain dulling to a soft, bone deep ache in the span of a split second. None of it made sense, and Tommy hadn't even really opened his eyes yet.</p><p> </p><p>When he did, it took him a few moments of swimming vision before he could take in his surroundings. It was a blinding amount of white encasing him, in the shape of a room- or not quite? He was sure he could see walls and shelves and desks and decorations, all white, but then they seemed to melt and shift into non-existence. Tommy's brain felt sluggish as it is, so he didn't try any harder to focus on surroundings that clearly didn't want to be focused on. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, his eye was caught on the only splash of colour that surrounded the area. It was a figure, roughly if not exactly the same height as him. Tommy squinted, eyes still adjusting to the light and vision slightly fuzzy around the edges, to try and make out features. From a first glance, they were wearing oddly simple clothes for the otherwise surreal setting - jeans, white shirt over a red hoodie. However, there were strange elements that stood out against the bland base. Their belt had Prime symbols - much better looking than the crude wooden pendant Tommy wore under his shirt - attached the full length around, and even though the area was already bright enough, Tommy could see they were glowing. Every couple seconds, one of the symbols would flash purple, the glow varying in brightness. Not only that, but there seemed to be silver spheres floating around them, simplistic aside from a red slit on their sides. It was weird, and he had no idea what it meant. </p><p> </p><p>But that wasn't the worst part.</p><p> </p><p>The worst, most confusing part was that they had Tommy's face.</p><p> </p><p>There were a few differences - there was a red and white pen tucked behind their right ear, the hair was shorter, more neat, and the colours weren't as vibrant as Tommy's own - but it was still, unmistakably, his own face smiling at him. </p><p> </p><p>And it was, unbelievably yet unmistakably, his own voice that came from the stranger's lips. </p><p> </p><p>"What's up, big man?"</p><p> </p><p>Tommy was disoriented, lost, and exhaustion was weighing his soul down too much for a bombastic retort. "What- Who the fuck are you? What happened?" His voice came out in an uneven croak, and he winced at the sound. The consequences of screaming and begging for your life, he supposed.</p><p> </p><p>The stranger seemed more than happy to answer his questions, clapping their hands together. "Well, I'm you! Sort of. Most people call me Tommy too, or Tom, if they're close. But seeing as you're also Tommy, you can call me The Writer instead. And, uh, how do I put this nicely?" They - he - paused, tapping his chin in thought, before fixing Tommy with direct eye contact. "You're dead, pal."</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, I figured." Tommy replied in a small grumble, trying his best not to think about it. The phantom pains were still lingering, and he didn't want to lend any more thought to the topic, just in case the memory was vivid, which it surely would be considering it just happened.<em> It just happened. </em>He shook his head to focus on the situation at hand, folding his arms in front of him in a way he hoped looked intimidating but was mostly defensive. "What'd you mean, 'The Writer'? Bit of a vague name, innit?" </p><p> </p><p>Tommy eyed the other's belt again, momentarily mesmerised by the glow of the Prime symbols, before a wonderous, dreadful possibility dawned on him. He straightened, definitely <em> not </em> looking paler than two seconds prior as he looked up. "Are- Are you Twitch Prime?"</p><p> </p><p>Tommy wasn't sure whether he should be relieved or not when The Writer snorted lightly, shrugging. "Kind of. Not really. It's complicated."</p><p> </p><p>Considering it was basically a non-answer, Tommy settled on mildly uncomfortable, hugging his arms closer to his sides even as he raised an eyebrow. "What is that supposed to mean? What are you? <em> Who are you? </em>"</p><p> </p><p>He realised, conveniently after all the questions had been said, that it was never established that he was allowed to be asking them. Any anxiety that was brought forth by that realisation, however, was quickly quelled by The Writer's nonchalant hum. Perhaps it was just easier to trust his own face. </p><p> </p><p>"I mean, The Writer is what it says on the tin. I help make stories." The Writer faltered, smile swapped out for a furrowed brow and pursed lips. "Though if we're gonna be technical about all this, I only help make one story. Your story."</p><p> </p><p>"My-" Tommy choked on his own words, a part of his brain simply not processing the implications of what was said. He didn't like the use of story in reference to his- his <em> life </em> ? ( <em> It made him sound like a hero, and no matter what anyone said, he had never wanted to be one </em> - ) "My story? What are you, one of the fucking Fates or some shit?" ( <em> He can't remember when, but Techno had mentioned them at some point, when they were still on familial speaking terms. </em> ) Tommy swiftly pushed down thoughts of Techno and Withers and misunderstandings and focused on his rushing thoughts. They slowed as the cold fingers of horror clasped tightly around his stomach. "You- So all the bad things that've happened to me are your fault?"</p><p> </p><p>The horror isn't necessarily directed at the fact that the person in front of him may be the cause of all his suffering, but rather because, in that case, the fault wouldn't lie with Dream anymore. And Dream not being at fault was dangerous, because there was still a part of Tommy that clung to the idea of the bastard being his friend ( - <em>because he visited in exile when nobody else did, because he protected me from a mob that one time, because he said he cared, because, because, </em><b><em>because</em></b> - ) and the knowledge that he was essentially the root of all evil was the only thing keeping those thoughts at bay.</p><p> </p><p>He never wanted to enter that mindset again, especially not in <em> death </em> of all places, where Dream could no longer physically reach him. </p><p> </p><p>The Writer must have known this, or maybe it was simply coincidence that he paused, as if to consider words carefully, before replying. "Hey, not all of them! Wil was the one who was calling the shots up to the Manburg-Pogtopia War, not me." He laughed, and the name brings forth memories of guitars strings and splashes of yellow, of plumes of smoke and a charred trenchcoat, memories that clash uncomfortably within Tommy's skull. Instinctually, he knows The Writer is not referring to <em> his </em> Wilbur. "By proxy, you could say. Dream's still the green bitch who <em> really </em> did all that shit to you, you know?"</p><p> </p><p>It was a sigh of relief, even though Tommy didn't know how true the claim was, and he found himself relaxing at the lighthearted wording. "Well, he sure is a green bitch!" </p><p> </p><p>The two snickered ( <em> - and wasn't that a strange experience, because while Tommy wasn't sure what The Writer was, exactly, he was pretty sure he was some sort of indescribably powerful force, and yet here he was, laughing with him - </em> ) and Tommy relaxed. It was nice, and it cleared the fuzzy cotton that had been obscuring his mind, if only slightly.</p><p> </p><p>He looked around again, at the strange, morphing blankness around them, pleasantly finding that it didn't seem as overbearingly bright as before. "So where are we then?" He asked, and if he didn't fear for his balance due to disorientation, he would have rocked back on his heels. His voice was still hoarse, but it had adopted a more chirpy tone, even with the fatigue burrowing into his muscles. "Is this like Heaven, or Hell, or something? Looks a bit empty to me."</p><p> </p><p>The Writer turned to look at the surroundings over his shoulder. "Nope, it's actually neither." He glanced back to Tommy, a teasing grin blooming on his features. "No such thing as heaven and hell, actually. Just the Afterlife, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that this isn't it."</p><p> </p><p>Tommy blinked, and maybe his head wasn't as clear as he initially thought, because it took a moment for him to process. "What?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah," The Writer dragged the word out, rolling the vowels on his tongue as he looked to the side, almost sheepish as he rubbed his neck. "Gonna be honest, man, I'm not sure why you're here. You were supposed to get to the Afterlife and that would be it." He cleared his throat, before smiling. "It's okay, though! I'll just send you on your way once we finish talking. I'm pretty sure I can do that, easy."</p><p> </p><p>Tommy scoffed, but his momentary concern dissolved with the reassurance. "Yeah, because you gotta end my story, right, Writer?" It was a bittersweet sentence - all that time spent yearning, only to die when he finally wanted to live again. </p><p> </p><p>The Writer didn't respond as quickly as Tommy thought he would, and when he focused on him again, he was unsettled to find something almost akin to <em> pity </em> in his eyes, clashing with his cheeky smile. "No. It's because it's not the end of your story, not yet."</p><p> </p><p>Tommy laughed disbelievingly, even as familiar tendrils of fear began to coil around him. "What do you mean, this isn't the end of my story? I'm literally fucking <em> dead </em>, what else could there be?!"</p><p> </p><p>He had been hoping The Writer would laugh, turn around and say he was just kidding, because even if he would be a little pissed, it would at least make sense. Instead, he sighed heavily, his smile strained. "You'll see what I mean. I'm afraid it's only gonna get worse from here."</p><p> </p><p>The prospect instantly caused barbs of panic to spike from the hold fear had on him, breath he didn't need anymore hitching. "No, no, what the hell is that supposed to mean? I- I'm dead! I'm meant to be resting in peace with girls and- and drugs and shit!" He spluttered, stumbling over his explanation.</p><p> </p><p>( <em> He thought of explosions ringing in his ears, of open wounds, of the heat of lava, of compressing walls, of burnt flesh, blue, red and white - no, it couldn't get worse. It couldn't because he didn't want to think about what could be worse than what already happened. It was getting better, he was supposed to be getting </em> <b> <em>better</em> </b> <em> - ! </em> )</p><p> </p><p>"-ey, hey!" Tommy startled as he realised The Writer was closer than before, flinching back despite himself. The Writer looked embarrassed as he stepped back, but Tommy was just grateful for the distance. "Yeah, maybe I could've said that a bit better. Listen, I know it sounds bad, but you'll be okay, alright?" He puffed his chest out, thumping his fist against it. "After all, I'm kinda you, you're kinda me, and that makes us <em> both </em> big men! You'll get through it, believe me. Gotta get through the worst before reaching the better and shit, y'know?"</p><p> </p><p>The Writer's smile was bright and Tommy wanted to feel reassured again, but instead, all he felt was an anxious ache where his heart should be. "I thought the worst was already over." He muttered flatly - it might have been angry if he could bring himself to yell. </p><p> </p><p>The Writer's smile faltered, his body language wilting for the first time since Tommy arrived. He closed his eyes with a sigh, and when they opened again, there was something earnest in his face. "You'll get your rest eventually. <em> Real </em> rest. Trust me, 'cause I know. Just… not yet."</p><p> </p><p>A lump formed in Tommy's throat. It was a relief, to know he would get rest eventually, but it was a bit ominously phrased. That, and he yearned for that rest now. </p><p> </p><p>( <em> The hotel was supposed to be his rest, Sam Nook was supposed to be his rest, his jukebox and his discs and his bench and sunsets with no strings attached was supposed to be his rest - </em> )</p><p> </p><p>"And, uh, if it helps, Big T?" The Writer barrelled onwards once it became clear that Tommy didn't have a response. He appreciated it, not particularly fond of the silence even if he couldn't fill it himself. "Whenever you feel alone, just know you have hundreds, thousands of people backing you up."</p><p> </p><p>There was something warm to those words, something touched, but Tommy couldn't focus on that. His attention was zeroed in on the silver spheres, as the red slits widened into circles, like eyes opening. In fact, at first glance he might have mistaken them for eyes, but the red had no pupils, and was too glassy to be real. </p><p> </p><p>With them, came a wave of voices, indistinct and melting together. Tommy was aware that he occasionally had to deal with voices in his head, but he knew that this wasn't in his head - they were echoing around the molten space, and even if he could decipher words, he knew they were cheering, <em> supporting </em>.</p><p> </p><p>( <em> It reminded him of Puffy, of Sam, of </em> <b> <em>Tubbo</em> </b> <em> and no, of course that wasn't tears in his eyes - </em> )</p><p> </p><p>The Writer grinned at him, slowly moving forward with open arms. Tommy took a step back, still overwhelmed by the voices, before pausing to let himself be wrapped in a hug. If he couldn't trust himself with a simple <em> hug </em>, that would just be depressing.</p><p> </p><p>It was simultaneously comfortable and painful; the warmth was soothing, the steady hold grounding even if there was nowhere to be grounded with, but the ache in his bones cried and his nerves were screaming, even with the light contact. </p><p> </p><p>He hugged back loosely with shaky arms.</p><p> </p><p>Tommy didn't notice the darkness edging his vision for a while, and by the time he did, there wasn't enough time to panic before he succumbed. His body suddenly felt numb, and he was sure he could <em> feel </em> the edges of it splitting and blurring, unravelling like a loose thread.</p><p> </p><p>His consciousness was waning quickly when a huffed laugh registered in his brain, the sound soft and fond.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "See you later, Tommy. Good night." </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Tommy came to awareness in a tunnel of some sorts, colourless and empty, with a screeching pain in his incorporeal muscles and no recollection of an ever-changing  white room and a boy that shared his face.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tagging this was even more of a pain than usual oof</p><p>This was super fun to write!! I started writing it just before Tommy's stream on the 4th, but it was pretty easy to tweak it to make sense. In fact, it was probably better knowing how things panned out in advance, seeing as The Writer was supposed to know</p><p>this is inspired in part by the many memes of cc!tommy being entirely at fault for c!tommy's suffering because it's very funny and quite frankly. mood.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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